A Study in the Hellmouth
by Sylvia Fig
Summary: California was completely miserable, Sherlock decided. Hot and crowded with idiots. The only plus: it offered plenty of work for the world's only consulting detective. In-depth knowledge of Buffy the Vampire Slayer not needed to enjoy. Knowledge of BBC's Sherlock a plus.
1. Chapter 1: Welcome to Sunnydale

**Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Sherlock. I'm just borrowing their characters. **

* * *

California was completely miserable, Sherlock decided. Hot and crowded with idiots. The only plus: it offered plenty of work for the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock stepped outside the Sunnydale airport, John behind him carrying the bags. Sunny, light cloud cover, eighty-five to ninety degrees. Fahrenheit, obviously, because Americans were stubborn about the metric system. Sherlock could feel his pores opening.

He raised his arm to hail a taxi, but there were already several lined up and waiting. Annoying. The nearest driver jumped out of his taxi and started taking the bags from John.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen, and welcome to Sunnydale!" the driver said. "Where are you headed today?"

Must he be so friendly? "Kings Street, downtown," Sherlock said, striding to the car. "There's fifty more quid in it for you if you'll take our bags on to the hotel."

"Quid?"

Honestly. "_Dollars_. Fifty dollars if you'll take our bags to the Sundown Inn after you drop us at Kings Street."

"Ah, Sherlock," John said, leaning in closer and lowering his voice. His breath smelled like peppermint and honey. "Don't you think maybe we could start tomorrow? Give us a chance to recover a bit?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Recover from what?"

"Oh, nothing. I suppose a twelve-hour flight is _nothing_ to recover from. Why don't we just get straight to work?"

"Yes, John, that's what I was saying," Sherlock said. He shrugged out of his great coat – the heat was truly ungodly – and got into the cab. John followed him. "How's your throat?"

"My what?"

The cab pulled away from the airport. "Your throat. How does it feel? Are you getting sick?"

"Well, my throat was a bit scratchy when I woke from my nap on the plane. Should I even I ask how you know that?"

"You probably shouldn't, but I know you want to, so I'll answer: your breath. Mint tea and honey. Not your usual."

The driver looked at them in the rear view mirror.

"I suppose it isn't," John said. "I quite liked it, though."

Sherlock liked it, too. The smell. It was pleasant, that was all.

"You're going the wrong way," he said to the driver.

"Sorry, what?"

"You should've gotten off at the freeway and you didn't. Please take the next exit."

"Oh, are you two familiar with Sunnydale?" the taxi driver asked.

"No," Sherlock said flatly.

John looked from him to the driver. "We're just here on business, thanks," he said. "Not that we need to be…"

"Don't start this again," Sherlock said.

"You know it's true. We had plenty of work in London. There was no need to come halfway across the world for a case that's probably a hoax in the first place."

"Come now, John. Haven't you ever wanted to meet a vampire?"

* * *

The sun was setting as the cab parked in front of a nightclub called The Bronze. The taxi driver seemed glad to see them go – or he was eager to pick up the prostitute on the corner who was giving him the eye. Could be either one, Sherlock thought.

The door was manned by a skinny teenager slouching on a stool. Acne scars, shaking hands, aversion to eye contact. Meth addict; withdrawal symptoms. They passed without him looking up.

"I don't understand what we're doing here," John said. "We don't even know what we're looking for."

"We're looking for a Senator's daughter, John. She was kidnapped. That's why we're here."

"Not America," John said, rubbing his eyes. "I know why we're in this country. I meant the nightclub. What are we doing in this nightclub?"

It wasn't the nicest nightclub, Sherlock was willing to admit. Thin metal chairs and irritatingly small tables. Young people with bad hair and too-tight clothes everywhere, flirting and filling the air with their sweat and pheromones.

"We're observing," Sherlock said.

He had done his research. This particular nightclub had been noted as the location on many police reports. 127 in the last three years, actually. Everything from petty theft and sexual assault to murder. Half of them were boring, but the other half… Well. They were interesting.

Sunnydale was interesting. Different. _New_.

That was why Sherlock had to come here. Not for the Senator's daughter, who he was already fairly certain had eloped with a boyfriend, but for Sunnydale. The criminals here were creative; the vigilantes even more so.

John got them a table that could barely fit their drinks. Sherlock sat with his back to the wall and John took the seat across from him. The club was getting busier.

"Untuck your shirt," Sherlock said.

"Sorry?"

"You look like a chaperone. Untuck your shirt, John."

"A chaperone?" John said, frowning a little. He stood and pulled at his shirt until it came loose. "I do not. I'm not that old, you know, and neither are you. Harry said I don't look a day over thirty."

"She lied," Sherlock said.

"Are _you_ going to untuck your shirt?"

"No."

John sulked, staring at the wall, and Sherlock sipped out of a glass he wasn't completely sure was clean. Seltzer water, no lemon or lime. Just something for him to hold so he wouldn't seem conspicuous.

A band onstage was playing a song Sherlock vaguely placed as being released in the late 1990's, but he couldn't be bothered to name it. The crowd writhed to the music. They danced with their heads thrown back, arms in the air, screaming and laughing. He wished they would stop. They were making it difficult for him to see.

Sherlock gave up on watching the dance pit and turned his attention to the catwalk. There, a face caught his attention. Pale with red hair and dark lipstick.

"Well hello," Sherlock said.

John raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.

"I believe I've found our Senator's daughter, John," he said. "And she is not where she's supposed to be."

"Well, isn't that the point?" John said, craning his neck to look up at the catwalk. "She hasn't been where she's supposed to be in weeks. But now that we've found her, we can go back home to Baker Street. Spectacular. I wonder if Sunnydale has a red-eye flight to London…"

Sherlock wasn't listening. He got up and found the staircase. Took them two at a time, mind racing. The daughter, Georgia was her name, had run away from home. Unhappy family life, Sherlock knew from talking to the father. So why would she stay in town? Money wasn't an issue, obviously. Why not take the first bus out of Sunnydale?

The catwalk was packed, but the music was quieter up here, and no one had their arms raised. Sherlock picked his way through the crowd, hands on the lapels of his jacket, searching for that head of red hair. The floor of the platform was meshed metal. Very thin. The muscles of Sherlock's legs wouldn't relax completely.

He made it to the other end of the catwalk without seeing her, but there was another stairwell. Sherlock pushed the door open and hurried down the stairs, listening for voices. It was quiet except for the sound of his shoes against concrete.

Back on the main floor. John was at their table, nursing a new drink. Looked like Bourbon. Idiot. He could've seen where Georgia had gone, if he'd been paying attention. Sherlock crossed the room. "Let's go."

"Go?" John said. "Why? I thought we might stay a little longer. I kind of like the band."

"The band is wretched," Sherlock said, turning to leave. They were wasting time. The girl couldn't have gotten far. He strode to the exit, John muttering behind him, and pushed the door open. Night had fallen, but it offered no relief from the heat. Sherlock thought the alleyway behind The Bronze was deserted for approximately four seconds. Until he heard her voice.

"Thought you'd never leave."

A woman, blonde and petite, stepped around the corner of the club. In her right hand, she held a sharpened wooden stake.

Interesting.

"Welcome to Sunnydale," she said.

And then she ran at them.


	2. Chapter 2: You're alive

**Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy or Sherlock. I'm just borrowing their characters.**

* * *

Buffy had been watching the two men for fifteen minutes, and there was no doubt in her mind that they were dead. At least, one of them was. The tall one was porcelain pale and his posture way too perfect. Plus, he dressed like he'd come from a cocktail party. His suit might even be tailored. The little guy with him looked kind of like a puppy.

The two definitely weren't locals; Buffy would've remembered seeing them before. They were fresh, dead meat. Just what she needed.

The tall one swept up the stairs (that was how he moved; he swept) and paced the catwalk, looking for someone. Another dead giveaway: the way he moved. It was too purposeful.

Buffy waited and watched.

He came back downstairs to get his puppy. They were actually kinda cute together, Buffy thought. She wondered if they were a couple.

They crossed the room to the exit, the taller brunette leading the way. The crowd, drunk and mostly oblivious, parted for him. Did he even notice? How old _was _he?

Buffy slipped out a side door, grabbing the stake from her waistband, and circled around the building to head them off.

"Thought you'd never leave," she said when they emerged. They didn't seem surprised to see her; in fact, the tall one smiled a little. He had great hair. Dark, curly and thick. How did he get it to curl like that without frizzing? She made a note to ask before she staked him.

"Welcome to Sunnydale," she said. And then she charged them.

Or, at least, she started to. Until the puppy pulled out a gun.

Buffy skidded to a stop, arms pinwheeling for balance, only a couple feet away from them. "A gun," she said, staring down the barrel. "Tacky."

"Careful, John," the brunette vamp said to the pup. "You've just been accused of tackiness by an American."

"I won't take it personally," John said.

Ugh. They weren't old or interesting after all, Buffy thought. And John definitely wasn't a vamp; vampires don't use guns. The tall one was just a new vamp faking a British accent and getting his crony to copy him. He probably ate a tailor to get the suit – everybody wanted to be exotic.

"Neat accents," Buffy said, looking between them and smiling crookedly. "Did you get 'em on clearance at the K-Mart?"

"No, as a matter of fact," the brunette said. He extended his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."

"Buffy," she said, crossing her arms and ignoring his hand. "Vampire slayer. The."

The brunette, Sherlock, slowly withdrew his hand. He lifted his chin and stared at her; Buffy got the feeling she was being studied. "This is normally the part where you run," she added.

"I'm sorry," John interrupted. "I think I must have heard you wrong. Did you say vampire slayer?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Ah, no."

"But this is perfect," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers. Buffy liked the purple button-up shirt he was wearing. Maybe she could save it before she staked him… "Truly astonishing," he continued. "You're one of the vigilantes I read about. The slayer, did you call yourself?"

Buffy snapped her gaze up to his face. "_One_ of the vigilantes? I'm _the _vigilante. The chosen one, etcetera. You really are new in town, aren't you?" Maybe their accents were genuine, after all... Oh no. She closed her eyes as a horrible possibility crept into her mind. "Are you friends of Spike's? Did he send you to follow me?"

"_Spike_?" John said. "That's a name?"

Thank god, Buffy thought.

"Okay," she said, raising her stake again. "Enough talking. You, puppy guy, why don't you put the gun down before you poke someone's eye out."

John turned his head a bit to look at Sherlock. "She called me puppy guy."

"So I heard," Sherlock said. "Listen, Miss...? I apologize, I didn't catch your last name."

"No, you didn't."

"Right. Miss Slayer, then. John is unlikely to lower his gun while you are armed with a sharpened stake and apparently prepared to slay us. Though if you'd like to come inside, we'd love to have a little chat."

"We would?" John said. Sherlock ignored him.

Buffy looked at Sherlock - what kind of name was that, anyway? - more closely. His chest rose and fell like he was breathing, but that was easy to fake. She'd been so sure he was dead. But since when did vampires make their henchmen use guns? Could be a British thing. Except... weren't guns illegal there?

"Gimme your wrist," Buffy finally said.

Sherlock extended an arm, rolling the sleeve of his jacket and shirt up by the cuffs. Buffy wished he would slouch a little. He was making her feel like a total slob. She straightened her shoulders as she reached out to touch the thick blue veins of his wrist. Sherlock's pulse beat against her fingers.

"You're alive," she said.

He smiled a little. "Opinions on that differ."

Buffy pulled her hand back and stepped away. "Let's go inside."


	3. Chapter 3: Things Without a Pulse

John used to wonder if Sherlock was gay. But then everything with Irene Adler happened, and it convinced him that couldn't be the case. Now, sitting beside him and across from Buffy, John speculated on Sherlock's sexuality once again.

It wasn't like John wanted to think about Sherlock having sex. John was fairly certain that Sherlock was a virgin, actually, and sometimes wondered if he was asexual, a person who just wasn't interested in fucking. He said the night they met that he was married to his work. Did that mean he got off on deductions? Like, got off on them _literally?_

John cut that thread of thought short.

He could tell that Sherlock was interested in Buffy, of course. He was watching her closely, so closely that someone who didn't know him might think the interest was romantic. But John could also tell that the realm of Sherlock's interest was scientific, not sexual.

_You have a beautiful woman sitting across from you_, John told himself. _Stop thinking about Sherlock and sex_. He gulped his drink and cringed as it burned down his throat.

"So," Buffy said, sitting on a tall bar stool. John noticed she had to shimmy her hips a little to do it. "A consulting detective, huh? What do you consult on? Witches and demons and other big baddies?"

John said, "Are you… are you serious?"

"Afraid not," Sherlock said cavalierly. "Most of our work is thoroughly mortal business."

"Too bad," Buffy said. John bet her lip gloss tasted like strawberries. "A consulting detective with a supernatural specialty could make good money in Sunnydale."

"Well, Miss…?" Sherlock trailed off.

"Summers," she said.

"Miss Summers. We were hired to come to Sunnydale by Senator Davis-"

"I don't follow politics," Buffy interrupted.

"Neither do I," Sherlock said. "The Senator's daughter was kidnapped. And she had a very interesting theory on the kidnapper's identity."

Buffy's eyebrows fell low on her forehead. She looked apprehensive. "What was her theory?"

"Senator Davis said her daughter was kidnapped by vampires."

"Not a vamp's M.O."

"She seemed very sure."

"Are you?" Buffy asked.

Sherlock sat back and pressed his fingertips together under his chin. The stage backlit his profile: full lips, like a woman's, and permanently upturned nose. John knew he was deciding what to tell her. Of course they both realized the vampire thing was a hoax, but this Buffy woman believed herself a vampire slayer. That promised a violent brand of crazy. Sherlock would need to choose his words carefully.

John held his breath.

"I am sure," Sherlock said, "that her daughter is missing. I have not yet identified a culprit, but I'm sure that once I do, they will have a pulse."

_This isn't going to end well,_ John thought.

"You think that vampires aren't real," Buffy realized. She planted her palms against the table and leaned towards Sherlock. "Look. You're out of your depth. I'll investigate the disappearance. You don't need to go poking around at night in this town."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"Just listen to me. Take your friend… Uh…"

Of course. "John."

"Right. Sorry. Take John and go home to the mother country. Don't stay here."

"Why not?" Sherlock repeated.

The band chose then to finish playing. The onstage lights flicked off, leaving them in momentary darkness.

"Because if you don't, Sunnydale will devour you. This is the Hellmouth, Sherlock. It will pick its teeth with your bones."

The house lights came on and John jumped. A man was standing behind Buffy. A tall one with white-blonde hair and cheekbones to rival Sherlock's. John shot a look at Sherlock and tried to mimic his cool. He probably didn't even blink the whole time.

"A party and no one invited me," the blond man said. British. From London? John couldn't quite tell.

"Spike," Buffy said, sounding more annoyed than surprised. "What are you doing here?"

Spike looked from Buffy to Sherlock. "Pretty man. Is he your date?" And then he turned to John. "Or yours?"

John sighed. He wasn't gay. Not there was anything wrong with being gay. He just. Wasn't. But he'd given up on correcting people.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," Sherlock said, standing. He extended a hand and Spike ignored it. These people had no manners.

John noticed that Sherlock didn't correct Spike, either, about the two of them dating. John flicked his gaze at Buffy. Did she think they were a couple, too? Sherlock was wreaking bloody havoc his love life. Not that he'd want to date a woman who thought she was a vampire slayer. _Probably _not, anyway.

"This is my associate," Sherlock continued, gesturing to John.

He pushed himself to his feet and nodded at the blond man. "John Watson."

"Two of my countrymen. That's lovely, isn't it?" Spike continued before anyone could say anything. "Hate to interrupt your date, Goldilocks, but I thought you'd want to know: there's a new nest in town."

"Where?" Buffy asked.

"Jesus. Where do you _think?_ Cemetery, of course. Newborns these days have no imagination. Really, it's a disgrace."

"Okay," she said. "I'll meet you there in ten."

"I could-" he started, looking from Buffy to Sherlock and John. Spike lowered his voice a few notches. "I could drive you. Got a car now."

"Oh yeah?" Buffy said. "Who'd you steal it from?"

She was a small woman, tiny, really, but John bet she could thrash him.

God, he would love that.

"I'll meet you there," she repeated.

"Okay," Spike said, backing away. "Okay. Sure. See you in a bit then, Goldilocks."

Buffy turned back to them.

"Ah - what kind of things live in the nest that Spike was talking about?" John asked.

"Things without a pulse," Buffy said. She stood and left them at the table.


	4. Chapter 4: A Sound like the Ocean

Sherlock waited until the door closed behind Buffy before he started following her.

"Sherlock—" John said from behind him. "Sherlock! Wait."

"Do keep up, John," Sherlock said. Outside, he strode toward the main road.

Of course he'd already Googled cemeteries in Sunnydale – there was only one. And since he memorized a map of Sunnydale on the plane ride over, he knew exactly where it was. A cab rounded the corner and Sherlock whistled for it.

"Sherlock," John said, finally catching up to him. "You can't be serious. These people are _insane_. That blond woman thinks she's a_ vampire slayer._"

"Do you like her?" Sherlock asked as they got into the cab. He relayed the cemetery's address to the cabbie along with strict instructions not to take the scenic route.

John shut the door behind them. "Well, yes, I suppose. She seems perfectly nice, if a bit violently insane."

"No, John, I mean are you attracted to her? There was no reason to use her hair color as an identifier just now; you could've simply said 'that woman,' or called her by her name, which I am confident you remember."

"She's an attractive woman!"

"I can't have your judgment compromised on a case," Sherlock said. His concern was purely professional, of course.

"It won't be, you know it won't be. It never is."

"Even so."

"Fine, fine. I get it."

John's smile was soft and a little incredulous. Distracting. Sherlock turned up his jacket collar against it.

The cab ride was six minutes long, which was two minutes longer than it should've been. Sherlock paid the cab tersely and swung the door open, scanning the landscape. Too many mausoleums; they obstructed his view. He and John would have to walk the grounds.

"Should we split up?" John asked.

"Don't be stupid."

Sherlock observed the cemetery. About a twenty percent of the graves were over a hundred years old, twenty percent were fifty to a hundred years old, and sixty percent were very new. He counted six graves that had been dug in the last week. More mausoleums than were usually seen in American cemeteries. Flowers were sparse.

"A lot death for a town this small, wouldn't you say, John?"

"How big is the town?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him.

He wiped a gloved finger over the top of a headstone that was only one year old. His glove came away grimy. "And they don't seem to care very much for their dead, do they?"

"Sherlock, weren't we supposed to be looking for Spike and, ah, Buffy?"

"I doubt we'll need to."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd wager slaying is a noisy business. Stay quiet."

"No," John said, raising his voice exactly two octaves and leaning in close. His breath was cool on Sherlock's face. Smelled like Bourbon and honey. "We can't just wait around here for them to start slaying things. What if they're slaying people?"

Sherlock sighed.

Spike said he'd found a "new nest." He and Buffy believed they were hunting vampires in this cemetery; it seemed logical to Sherlock that for them, a new nest of vampires would mean a new grave. A big one. Perhaps a mausoleum.

Sherlock climbed on top of a large, square headstone and scanned the graveyard for a freshly constructed monument. Sniffed for wet cement or plaster, looked for telltale crushed grass and the tire tracks of heavy machinery.

So easy.

He found the mausoleum in twenty-nine seconds and it would've been faster if the place wasn't so damned big. Sunnydale couldn't be more than 35,000 in population; did they really need acres and acres of graves? Waste. Sentiment.

"This way," he said to John, jumping off the headstone.

It was about fifty meters away, the only building in the cemetery new and large enough to shine like a moon in the darkness. As they grew closer, Sherlock heard shouting.

John stopped him with a hand on his arm; Sherlock pretended it annoyed him.

"Shouldn't we call the police?" John asked. "This isn't London, Sherlock. The rules are different here."

"The rules are the same everywhere. In any case, you said it yourself: we don't know exactly who it is that Buffy is slaying."

John pulled out his handgun. Sherlock smiled a little and turned away before John could see it.

Screams from inside, sounds like bodies being thrown through air, crashing into concrete. Deduction: fighting. A softer sound, like a whisper or the ocean. Deduction: unsure. Insufficient data.

Sherlock kicked the door open. The scene laid before him was this: Buffy, hair askew and clothes slightly torn, bloody scratch across one cheek, fighting a man almost twice her height and breadth. Spike and two other men, punching, ducking, punching again. A thick layer of dust coating the floor.

Something was wrong with the men's faces.

Buffy looked up at them, threw a particularly vicious punch and even though the man she was fighting was three times her size, he fell to one knee. She pulled a sharpened wooden stake from her jacket. Her arm lifted in an arc before bring the stake down, piercing the man's chest.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Time slowed.

For a second, the man seemed lit from within. Then he began to brown, skin turning into something that looked like sand; Sherlock could see his skeleton. A sound like the ocean or a scream underwater. And then the man was nothing but a pile of dirt at Buffy's feet.

Sherlock collected the data. Memorized it. Catalogued it. But his brain refused to examine it. Refused to do anything except make him stare at the thick layer of dust on the floor of this brand new mausoleum.

"_Jesus_," John said.

"Jesus isn't here," Spike said. Two piles of dust were at his feet, each one smaller than the one Buffy had — created. "Can I take a message?"

"Jesus," John said again.

Don't repeat yourself, Sherlock wanted to tell him. It's boring.

Instead Sherlock stared at the coating of dust on John's shoes.

"Ah," he stuttered. Normally endearing. Sherlock couldn't look at his face. "What—" John licked his lips—"was that?"

"A nest of newborns," Buffy said, stepping over the largest pile of dust, the one that was a man three times her size, but was still relatively small. Sherlock tried to imagine how the man's mass could possibly be compressed to such a size in the space of a second.

It wasn't possible. Sherlock slapped himself in the face. Not dreaming.

"You don't belong here," Spike said, sneering at them. "Go home to England and fight for Queen and country. Or play detective. Whatever gets you off."

Sherlock looked at him. Pale. Aristocratic features, something dated about them. Slightly hunched under his long leather coat, as if he didn't expect the fight to be over. Hair carefully gelled.

Spike had just fought two men, killed them perhaps, and yet he wasn't winded.

Didn't look to be breathing at all.

Sherlock pulled his glove off and stepped forward. Slipped his hand under the sleeve of Spike's leather jacket and rested two fingers against his wrist. Cold skin. Poor circulation? High blood pressure? Holding his breath? No.

One of Spike's eyebrows rose before he stepped out of Sherlock's reach.

"Thanks mate," Spike said. "But you're not my type. Hands off the merchandise."

Sherlock's fingers were still extended, as if he could feel Spike's nonexistent pulse in the air, through sheer force of will.

"Sherlock," John said, "are you—"

Sherlock gripped John's shoulder for balance and silence. The laws of their universe were being rewritten; John needed to be quiet for this. Show some respect.

Buffy backed away, staring at them the whole time. Spike followed her.

"I hope I don't see you again," she said.

"You will," Sherlock whispered.


	5. Chapter 5: Dust It's eloquent

John stared at Sherlock, at the way his fingers pressed against his temples like he couldn't quite keep the thoughts from spiraling out of his skull. He looked like a child trying to understand why the sky was blue.

John took a breath and Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"No," he said, holding a hand up. "No, don't say a word. Don't think a thought."

Sherlock pulled a pad of paper and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. He tore a sheet off and shoved it into John's hands.

"Write down what you saw exactly as you saw it. And also—" Sherlock paused, seeming to choose his words carefully, "also describe the features of the people who were here and what mausoleum looks like."

"Okay," John said. "So you think it could be another case like Baskerville?"

Sherlock was already scribbling his own description.

"Yes, precisely," he said, glancing up at John. "Don't look!" Sherlock covered his paper and stepped back. "You'll ruin the entire experiment. Write what you saw, now, so you don't forget it. Visual memory is imperfect at best, John."

John wrote. The men: yellow eyes, sallow skin. Their teeth… Elongated. Foreheads misshapen. Buffy fighting them: inhumanly strong. Spike, too. John didn't know how to describe what had come next. The end of the fight. How the deformed men had crumbled into dust.

And God, the _smell_.

"Are you finished?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yeah, sure," John said, writing the last few words. It wouldn't be nearly as thorough as a medical report, but next time he'd be more prepared.

Sherlock snatched the paper from him. His eyes dashed around the page so quickly John wondered if Sherlock was really reading anything, how he could possibly absorb information at that speed. Sometimes John wondered if Sherlock was fully human.

"Impossible," Sherlock muttered. The papers fell from his fingers. John picked them up. He had to brush dust off the papers before he could read them.

Sherlock's description of the fight was incredibly detailed, down to the type of wood he guessed Buffy's stake was crafted from. He speculated on the height and weight of all the dead men; he guessed at Spike's fighting technique (a blend of karate, Bartitsu and unrestrained street brawl). He even knew the type of plaster and concrete that the mausoleum was built from.

John's face warmed. He knew he was getting better at observing rather than seeing, at listening rather than hearing, at analyzing rather than thinking. But he would never be as good as Sherlock.

Their accounts of the fight, while varying in scope and detail, were almost identical.

John folded the papers and tucked them into his pocket. This was the part where he would sit back and watch Sherlock deduce. All the pieces would come together, no matter how complex the puzzle, because Sherlock was Sherlock. There was no case he couldn't solve.

Sherlock sat on his heels. He swiped a finger through the thick dust coating the mausoleum floor and sniffed it. John bent down beside him.

"Dust—" Sherlock began.

"I know," John interrupted. "It's eloquent."

Sherlock looked up at him. "So what is this dust saying?"

John opened his mouth. Closed it.

The way Sherlock was looking at him… It was an honest question. Sherlock really didn't know.

"What is it saying?" Sherlock asked again, his voice growing louder. The dust had the consistency and smell of volcanic ash. It made the whole place reek of sulfur. "Do you know? _Tell me what you see, John._"

"I've no idea," John admitted. His heartbeat accelerated and he began to sweat. "But surely it's a parlor trick? Maybe there's a hidden door in the floor somewhere?"

Sherlock scoffed and started to pace.

"Maybe we should go to the hotel, Sherlock."

Sherlock spun to face him. "Why? Are you afraid?"

"No," John said carefully. "But I am tired. And I think we've found all we can from this place."

"Really," Sherlock said. John closed his eyes. He knew that tone. Sherlock was about to go on a tangent. "So you've already deduced that ten of those things died here, judging from the amount and arrangement of the dust? Oh hell," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands. "Let's just call them vampires, shall we? Our Buffy fancies herself a _vampire slayer_; we might as well play along.

"Have you figured that though our friends Buffy and Spike had obviously been trained to fight, the vampires were amateurs, had probably never been in anything more than a bar brawl? Though they were at least as strong as our new friends. Have you seen this?" Sherlock bent behind a column to pick up a long, sharpened wooden stake. He raised the stake to his nose and sniffed the length of it.

"Redwood," Sherlock said. "Hints of cheap perfume – it belonged to Buffy. Was likely tucked into her breast pocket. Would you like it, John?" Sherlock tossed the stake disdainfully at John's feet. "Keep it close to your heart. Never know when we'll meet her again."

John swallowed hard. "You think that Buffy is one of them, then?" he asked, gesturing to the dust on the floor. "A vampire?"

"Obviously."

"But her face. It didn't get deformed like the other ones."

"Neither did Spike's," Sherlock said, flexing his fingers. John wondered if he was remembering taking Spike's pulse. "And yet he surely is a vampire."

"Okay," John said, blinking rapidly. He hadn't quite absorbed all this information yet. It left him feeling numb. "Why would they fight other vampires?"

"We'll find out," Sherlock said, striding to the door. "Back to the hotel for the night, John. We've got research to do."

* * *

That night, John crushed a sleeping pill and stirred it into Sherlock's tea. When Sherlock finally collapsed into bed, John tucked the cheap duvet around him and then began sorting through Sherlock's notes.

They were piled into messy stacks on the desk and tucked between the pages of encyclopedias; they were in the bathroom, stuffed in drawers, balled up in Sherlock's pockets. He and John had only been in the hotel for three hours; John had no idea how Sherlock had managed to inflict so much destruction in such a short period of time.

John put the papers in some semblance of order.

Long lists of books and references in Latin that not even John, with all of his medical training, could understand. Sherlock's handwriting was sloppier than usual. The ink was blotted and in places, Sherlock had dotted an i so fiercely that he tore the paper.

Names and addresses and family trees. Time tables, work schedules, birthdays. Sherlock was obsessed.

John was afraid.


	6. Chapter 6: Not Absolution, Oblivion

Heroin. Sherlock recalled it with a lucidity that few people were capable of.

In the mania of a high, Sherlock never forgot who he was or what kind of mind he possessed. He was released from it. He didn't have to hear or see the crush of vapid humanity surrounding him. Crowds became voiceless; the meaningless, endless words of everyone around him fading into nothing. Sherlock himself fading into nothing. He didn't have read anyone's entire, pathetic life stories laid out like print on a page.

Heroin wasn't absolution. It was oblivion. It closed every book and tucked it neatly back onto the shelf. The relief that gave him used to be breathtaking. The memory of it called him out of an unexpected and frankly irritating sleep.

Sherlock would have to make his own tea from now on.

John was deeply asleep on the sofa, arm thrown over his eyes, jumper pulled up around his navel. Sherlock laid the duvet over him and tucked it around his shoulders, and if Sherlock's eyes lingered on the trail of golden brown hair leading down into John's jeans, he didn't let himself think about it. He needed to get out. He needed more than sleep. In sleep, one could dream. Sherlock needed nothingness.

The sun had barely risen, but every city had neighborhoods that were so swollen with drugs they barely tracked the passage of time. Sherlock knew how to find them instinctively. He had money. Lots of money. Enough to keep people from asking about the British man in choking need of a high.

Walking away from the hotel, Sherlock replayed the previous night. Buffy and Spike fighting those things. Vampires? He wanted to scoff. But...

Sherlock calculated the amount of force Buffy would've needed to bring someone as large as her opponent to his knees. Buffy was petite. She shouldn't have been able to generate the necessary force; it was scientifically impossible for someone her height and weight, and yet she'd done it with a single punch.

Then there was Spike. The feel of his cold, stiff skin under Sherlock's fingers; the complete absence of pulse, warmth, breath. Spike had been at least as strong as Buffy, and both of them were ten times stronger than they should've been.

It was impossible. It defied every law of physics and biology and kinesiology that Sherlock knew. It cracked the foundation of his most basic knowledge. And knowledge was all that Sherlock had.

How many times had he told John: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? One of Sherlock's most basic tenants.

Could he still believe it?

And if he couldn't – if he couldn't believe that, what could he?

Sherlock obtained the drug without incident. Returned to the hotel.

It had only been an hour; John was still asleep. Still had the duvet tucked just so around his shoulders. Sherlock sometimes derided John for his quiet mind, mostly to get a rise out of him. The truth: Sherlock would do anything to experience quiet like that. To be calm and brave like John.

Sherlock clenched the baggie in his pocket. He would settle for oblivion.

He locked himself in the bathroom and measured out a line of white dust. He took a dollar bill from his wallet and rolled it up. Bent over and inhaled.

It was like being swallowed and assimilated by a black hole.

Sherlock tilted his head back and breathed in the emptiness.


	7. Chapter 7: Old Lullabies

John slept in. When he finally woke, rubbing the sleepy crust from his eyes, his first thought was of Sherlock. John sat up quickly. The room was empty. Quiet. Bright light shone in from the windows; it was late morning, perhaps early afternoon.

"Sherlock?" John called.

He stood and let the duvet crumple to the floor. Did Sherlock lay it over him...? He never did things like that. Sentimental things.

"Sherlock?" John repeated. His chest tightened from anxiety.

The room was empty. He strode to the door and poked his head out, thinking maybe Sherlock succumbed to a cigarette craving. There was no one outside. John went back into the room and checked his phone – nothing.

The bathroom door was closed. John let out his breath. Thank God.

He knocked on the door. "Sherlock? You going to be long in there? I've really got to piss."

The other side of the door was quiet. John tried the doorknob and it was locked.

"Hey, Sherlock. Are you okay?"

The shower wasn't running. What was he doing?

John knocked again. His heart began to race.

He knocked harder. Pushed the doorknob, crashed against the wood with his shoulder, ignoring the pain from his old bullet wound.

"Sherlock," John called. "Are you in there? Answer me."

Still nothing. John stepped back and rubbed his hands over his face. If Sherlock was just doing an experiment…

John kicked the door so hard the pain in his knee almost made him collapse. He did it again. The force of his kick made the paintings on the wall rattle.

Just one more…

The door crashed open and John did collapse.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "No no no…."

Sherlock was curled into a ball, head cradled in his hands. His fingers were stained with white dust and a rolled dollar bill lay beside him.

John had seen plenty of overdoses in the army (not something you hear about on the news). He knew what to check for. He crawled to Sherlock's side and took his pulse. Slow, but strong. Breathing steady.

John laid Sherlock's head in his lap and pulled his eyelids back, testing the pupils. They were responsive. Didn't seem to be an overdose, then… Sherlock was just passed out.

"Oh thank God," John muttered. He smoothed Sherlock's bangs back; they were damp with sweat. Sherlock began to shiver. His eyes cracked open.

"J—" Sherlock started to say, but his teeth were rattling too hard to speak.

"Hush," John said. He reached back to turn on the shower and made sure the water was lukewarm, not too hot or cold.

John stripped Sherlock's shirt off and unbelted the man's slacks. His skin was covered in goosebumps. John tried very hard not stare - he was agood doctor; he'd seen his share of naked bodies and now was not the time to be anything but a good doctor with nothing but another naked body. But this was Sherlock. And John would be lying if he said he never imagined what was under those tailored suits…

John ignored himself. Tried to concentrate on Sherlock's physiology rather than anatomy as he pulled off the man's slacks. His breathing, pulse, responsiveness.

"Come on, then," John said. "Help me stand you up."

Sherlock was trying, John could tell Sherlock was trying, but he was too weak. Probably still high. John braced a hand on the edge of the bathtub for leverage. He tried to ignore the gritty coating on it.

Somehow, he managed to get Sherlock over the ledge and into the shower, but as soon as the water hit his skin, he shivered harder.

"J-John—" Sherlock choked out.

"It's okay," John said. "I'm here."

John pulled off his jumper and stepped over the bathtub's edge. He turned the hot water faucet a bit more and then positioned himself behind Sherlock. John wrapped his arms around him. If Sherlock was crying, he ignored it.

John rocked him slowly back and forth, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock's arms. John started humming an old lullaby of his gran's, because it seemed to fit. Sherlock's shivering began to slow, but John didn't leave. It seemed very important to him not to leave. To just be there, holding Sherlock and humming his gran's old lullaby.

Was this something normal that best mates did? Or colleagues, or flatmates, or whatever they were to each other?

No, of course it wasn't. He knew that. Nothing with Sherlock was ever normal. John kept humming.

When the water began to grow cold, John turned the faucet off and reached behind them to grab a towel off the rack. He draped it around Sherlock's shoulders, noticing how flushed his skin was.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered.

"It's fine."

"It's not."

"All right," John said. "It's not fine."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, I—"

Sherlock stood, legs shaking a little. John was ready to catch him.

"You seeing me like that was unacceptable, John. I apologize."

John swallowed hard. Sherlock hadn't left the bathtub. He had the towel draped over his shoulders, but water was running down his legs, and his boxers were plastered to his skin…

John Watson, he told himself. You are a good doctor. Be a good doctor for Sherlock. Not a dirty fucking creep.

John dragged his eyes up to Sherlock's face and found the man watching him.

Of course.

"I'm fine now," Sherlock announced. "It's out of my system and I'm fine."

John would wait and see. Sherlock wasn't leaving his sight until they got out of bloody California, even if that meant he got little to no sleep. He couldn't wait to leave this godforsaken place.

"Okay," John said. He stood up and took Sherlock's arm to guide him out of the bathroom. "Dry off," John said. "Wouldn't want you to catch pneumonia on top of everything."

Sherlock nodded absently. John could practically hear his mind waking and catching up to his body. Sherlock started sorting through his notes, not even bothering to dress himself.

John sighed and went to towel off.

"John," Sherlock called. John poked his head around the corner.

"Yeah?"

"You have a lovely singing voice."

"Err. Thank you?"

Sherlock nodded as if that decided something.

John hoped he'd packed another pair of pants.


End file.
